


check me out i can't blend in

by the_everqueen



Series: girlsverse [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gifted children, Kid Fic, everyone is a girl - Freeform, single parent, they're lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: “Oh, hello there,” a cheerful voice said. “You must be my lucky number thirteen.”Jen froze.Eliza Schuyler stood in the door to the classroom.“What the hell,” burst out of Jen’s mouth, before she could stop it. “You’re Frances’s new teacher?”





	1. wear black on your forgotten red heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of a conversation with [herowndeliverance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance) \- bless her for listening to me chatter and also realizing these two would maybe be good for each other.
> 
> Jen Laurens in this 'verse is biracial: half white, half Puerto Rican descent. her mother, Queta, is the genderflipped version of Henry Laurens: she's of Puerto Rican descent and a career politician in SC. (Jen's father died when she was a child.) i facecast a younger Quiara Alegra Hudes for Jen, Pippa Soo for Eliza, Morgan Marcell for Alex (her Insta photos with the glasses!), and Taraji P. Henson for Benjamina. Giselle "Giza" Motier = Lafayette, whom i facecast as Alysha Deslorieux. the school Eliza works at is a Montessori-type elementary school. 
> 
> i did way too much research about the world of wedding photography for this.
> 
> the work and chapter titles come from tmg's "wear black."

“Mommy, we’re going to be late!”

Jen grunted as she yanked on her left boot. “Who taught you to tell time? Remind me to send them a fucking parenting book.” She tugged too hard on the zipper and it twisted out of place along the teeth. Fuck. Well, no time to fix it, they had to leave if she wanted to get to the school before eight. “Frances! Do you have your backpack?”

“And my lunch!”

God, how did Jen get lucky enough to have a responsible daughter? She grabbed her keys from the nightstand and dashed into the living room. Frances was waiting for her, in school uniform and her favorite kitten socks. She jumped to her feet, ponytail bouncing. 

Jen stopped short.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s —” she put a hand over her mouth. Tears pricked at her eyes. Were these the pregnancy hormones kicking in six years late? “You dressed yourself and everything.”

Frances beamed. “And I made my own breakfast!”

“Did it involve fruit?”

“Fruit loops.”

“Eh, good enough. Let’s get you to school.”

Thanks to the joys of traffic, they arrived at Frances’s first grade classroom at 8:12 am. Jen rushed through sign-in at the front desk, smiling politely at the woman behind it, trying not to growl at her small talk. She’d never understood the social world of moms, the obsession with school photos and recitals and playdates. Granted, “nomadic, single working-mom” didn’t encourage more than superficial friendships, nevermind explaining she liked women. 

(Yes, she really was sure; yes, Frances was hers; no, having sex with a man didn’t “turn her gay,” she’d known since she was a teenager — and at that point she tended to cut things short with a brittle smile, because she didn’t feel like rehashing her past mistakes.)

Outside the classroom, Jen knelt to give Frances another kiss on the cheek. “You’re going to have a great first day. You’ll have to tell me all about it when I pick you up.”

“I will.” Frances was staring at her shoes. Jen pushed down the guilt — Frances had made friends at her last kindergarten and was upset to find out she’d have to make new ones this year. There was no explaining that the move was a good sign, business had picked up, Jen might actually land something besides wedding gigs. 

She squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “Hey. We can go out for ice cream after, if you want.”

“It won’t spoil dinner?”

“Probably. But I think if you eat your carrot sticks it should be fine.”

Frances gave her a wobbly smile. 

“Oh, hello there,” a cheerful voice said. “You must be my lucky number thirteen.”

Jen froze.

Eliza Schuyler stood in the door to the classroom.

“What the hell,” burst out of Jen’s mouth, before she could stop it. “You’re Frances’s new teacher?”

At least Eliza had the decency to look shocked. She recovered quickly, though — that damn social grace Jen never mastered — and smiled at Frances. “I’m Miss Eliza. Do you want to join the rest of your class? Miss Benny is telling the other children about magnets.”

Frances glanced at Jen, who nodded encouragingly. “I’ll pick you up as soon as school’s over.”

She disappeared inside the classroom. Jen waited until she heard another adult woman’s voice introducing Frances to the class before she turned back to Eliza and hissed, “You could’ve warned me!”

“I didn’t know! The office sent me the roster with the kids’ names and contacts for emergencies.”

“And you didn’t see the name  _ Frances Laurens _ and think, ‘hmm, that sounds familiar’?”

“I’m not going to assume! Besides, she could have been your sister’s.”

Like Marta would have the patience for anything more dependent than her beloved cat. But Eliza didn’t know that. Jen closed her eyes and exhaled. “Well, she’s mine.”

“I can see that.”

Awkward silence. 

Eliza cleared her throat. “So, Alex and I —”

“I know,” Jen said, too fast. “I do go on social media once in awhile.”

She’d seen the pictures. Despite their disastrous not-breakup, she and Alex had remained media friends, so Jen got to witness Alex posting pics of her and Eliza in various places for  months, her crush painfully transparent. According to Giza, Schuyler refused to be the rebound girl and made it clear Alex was “just a friend.” Privately, Jen thought Schuyler didn’t want to be the tool Alex used to make her jealous. Not that Jen blamed her. If anything, she envied Eliza’s ability to set boundaries and make sensible decisions. 

Eliza fiddled with her watch. She looked good, in her dark jeans and blazer and ponytail, a bit of softness around her hips and thighs. The kind of cool teacher kids adored. “Well. Then there’s no reason we can’t be cordial.”

“You want to be friends?”

Eliza’s face went cool. “I’m saying, since we’ll be seeing each other regularly, maybe we should consider being civil. Also there’s a parent-teacher conference next Friday at seven.”

“But school just started!”

“It’s a chance for parents to see our curriculum and the events we have planned for the year.” Eliza lifted her chin. “Parents can sign up to volunteer.”

Damn. Jen definitely wanted her daughter to have a good experience at this nice private school, but her schedule didn’t always give her free weekends, and some days just getting out of bed was too much, let alone wearing a fake smile and chit-chatting for hours. 

How bad would it look if she didn’t volunteer?

“I’d better get back to class,” Eliza said, with a light touch to Jen’s arm. “I’ll see you next week.”

Jen nodded, distracted. “Yeah. Sure thing.”

“Oh, and darling?” Eliza gave her a sugar-sweet look. “Your boot is unzipped.”

 

That night, after she’d put Frances to bed, Jen looked up Hamilton. Last she’d heard, Alex was doing her PhD at Columbia — a quick Google search informed her Alex had landed a postdoc position at Princeton, working on a book. Jen clicked on the profile page. Alex’s professional photo stared back at her: she looked straight into the camera, arms crossed over her chest, that familiar challenging smirk playing on her mouth.  _ Like what you see? _ Her bio read like a list of publications, glancing through her education to emphasize the numerous articles published in academic journals, as well as the major conferences where she’d presented. Jen frowned. She didn’t remember this stuff on Alex’s social media. Her Twitter account was mostly rants about funding and the bullshit of academia; her Instagram (where she’d moved from Facebook) contained selfies and pictures of coffee shops, book piles, and the occasional girl. 

The girls rarely, if ever, appeared more than once. 

She clicked back to the profile. Alex, under thirty with her doctorate and a book deal, probably on the fast track for some permanent position. Alex, who hadn’t slowed down since undergrad. Alex, who changed the game and raised the stakes and continued to thrive. Meanwhile, Jen was trying to scrape together some kind of career, while raising another human being and not getting involved at Frances’s new school. 

No, she wouldn’t go down that line of thought. She’d made her choices. And Frances deserved better than a mom who used her as an excuse for late-night pity parties. Jen wasn’t Queta.

She closed her laptop and went to bed.

 

Jen had planned on conveniently forgetting about the parent-teacher conference, but Eliza sent Frances home with a note (“don’t forget!!!” smiley face) and also left a voicemail, so that was one battle lost. Plus it wasn’t as though she had anything better to do on a Friday night, besides edits, and those wouldn’t suffer if she took an hour to make sure Frances wasn’t learning that dinosaur fossils were a hoax. 

Of course, she got there late.

Heads turned as she opened the classroom door and slipped into the closest available seat, pulling Frances into her lap. Eliza paused in the middle of her sentence just long enough to raise her eyebrows at the interruption and then continued talking, something about discovery learning methods. Jen fumbled in her bag for the Nancy Drew she’d brought to entertain Frances.

“Were you not able to get a sitter?” the mother next to her whispered.

“Um, no.” 

“I can give you Rosa’s number,” she continued. “She’s great with kids.”

What was this woman’s deal? Jen forced a smile. “Thanks.” She handed Frances her book.

The mom behind her tapped her on the shoulder. “Your daughter can read?”

“Yeah? So?”

“She’s six.”

“I know. It’s kinda in the whole ‘mom’ thing.”

The woman huffed, almost in her ear. “It’s a novel!”

“And one of her favorites.” Jen twisted around. “Is there an issue I’m missing here?”

“In ADDITION,” Eliza said, loud enough to interrupt, “we are holding several events to promote our school and give you all a chance to be further involved in your children’s education. Benjamina is passing around the calendar and sign-up sheet; we’ll also make sure to email you copies once the office updates the roster.”

She went on to explain the details of each event and what services would be needed. Jen’s mind wandered — she needed to finish the edits on the portfolio for that one museum spread, and then tomorrow was the Carlisle wedding (which was part of why she couldn’t hire a sitter for tonight, she already had asked her sweet old landlady to watch Frances while she did the wedding gig), and she should do laundry if she wanted to look like a semi-functional adult. Which… oh, dammit, had she bought detergent? Would clothes be clean if she ran them through the machine without it?

The babysitter bitch nudged her with the clipboard. Jen took it and scanned the options: world history fair, holiday party, various fundraising things. She didn’t have co-workers she could push chocolates and raffle tickets on, although maybe Giza would buy a couple dozen. Or Jen could just pick something at random and not have to deal with the inevitable guilt when she cancelled last minute.

“There’s a bake sale,” Frances whispered. She’d closed her book in favor of scrutinizing the list. She pointed. Next month — parents just had to donate baked goods, and/or sign up for a half-hour slot to man the cash box with another parent. Okay. That seemed doable. Jen didn’t bake, but she was a passable cook, so how hard could a few dozen cookies be? She scribbled her name on the line and relinquished the clipboard.

There. She was being an Involved Parent. 

The teachers concluded with a speech about how pleased they were to be able to teach these particular kids this year and, after a round of applause, directed parents to the reception in the back, where they would be available to answer any questions.

Jen gathered her purse, ready to leave.

Frances tugged on her hand. “Mommy, I want to say hi to Miss Eliza.”

“You saw her this morning. You’re not hungry? We can get fries for dinner.”

She shook her head. Jen sighed. “Fine, lead the way.” Maybe she could snag a paper cup of coffee to fuel her through edits. 

Eliza was talking to one of the dads, but she smiled at Frances, standing politely to the side and waiting to be addressed. Jen wondered whether manners could be genetic as well as learned, because god knew her daughter had not learned such behavior from her. 

“Hello, Frances,” Eliza said, when the dad had wandered off to grab a sugar cookie. “I hope the meeting wasn’t too long.”

Frances shrugged. “It was fine. I had Nancy Drew.”

“Ooh, which one?”

“ _ The Secret in the Old Attic. _ ”

“Are you enjoying it?”

Frances wrinkled her nose. “Ned is boring.”

Eliza laughed. “I think so, too. I used to like George much better.”

“Mommy says Nancy and George should get married instead.”

Jen blushed, bracing herself on instinct for some remark about how Frances was too young to be thinking about those things, but Eliza just hummed. “I’d have to agree. They could solve  mysteries together and they’d save time not having to drive to each other’s houses.”

While they discussed girl detectives, Jen busied herself pouring a cup of coffee, adding enough cream and sugar packets to cover the actual taste. When she turned around, Frances had moved on to Benjamina, who was telling her about Agatha Christie. Jen thought she might have to actually veto  _ Murder on the Orient Express _ for bedtime reading. 

“She’s very smart,” Eliza observed, dunking a tea bag into a cup of hot water. 

“She likes to read.”

“She reads well for her age.”

Jen shrugged, uncomfortable. Frances’s kindergarten teacher suggested she skip to first grade, but at the time Jen hadn’t been sure that would be good for her. A childhood of honors programs had made her wary of grades-based achievements — she refused to become a parody of her mom. “I don’t want to push her too hard, too soon.”

“You’re going to have to push her at some point,” Eliza said. “Otherwise she’ll just be bored.”

“Is she? Bored?”

It was Eliza’s turn to shrug. “It’s only been a week. But the other kids are working on short paragraphs and she’s writing stories in her notebook.”

Jen bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with that, she’s not distracting the class or anything —”

“I didn’t say it was bad. I’m just telling you, she’s advanced for her age, she deserves an education that can keep up with her. Benny and I can tailor assignments so she doesn’t have to relearn stuff she already knows. But not all schools do that, and Frances said you’ve moved twice now —” she gave Jen a significant look “— so it’s something to keep in mind.”

Jen exhaled. “We’re here for the full school year. I paid the tuition already.”

And signed the lease to their apartment. She could only hope her influx of gigs was indicative of future prospects, so she could continue to pay rent. Their one-bedroom should not have had such a high monthly rate, but it was in a nicer area of the city. 

This was a good change. 

If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would come true.

Eliza’s face softened. “Well, she’s a delightful child and we’re happy to have her.”

“Yeah.” Jen watched Frances chattering with Benjamina. “Yeah, me too.”

 

Jen hated weddings.

It wasn’t that she was bitter. Really. But she’d had a couple of prints displayed at an indie gallery last month, the kind of photos she wanted to be taking, real and honest and immediate. Something that could grab you by the face and make you  _ see. _ And here she was running around a lawn, snapping photos of kids throwing flower petals and the bride shoving cake in the groom’s face. Staged photos with combinations of family members and the newlyweds, plus silly candids the bride could’ve taken on her phone but instead would pay to have included in a photo album. 

She should be grateful, Jen thought, as she framed a father-daughter shot on the dance floor. Weddings paid well. Sure, it was exhausting, running around all day, herding people into clusters and coaxing them to smile, editing the photos after the event. But it paid for rent, and Frances’s school.

(Besides, she would hate a big wedding. The cost and the fuss. Who would even come? Giza, maybe Hera. Not Queta. Not Alex.

Stupid, getting ahead of herself. She didn’t even have a girlfriend.)

The father-daughter dance came to an end, and the groom slipped into the father’s place. Jen snapped a photo as the groom put his hands on the bride’s waist, both of them swaying in place, gazing into each other’s faces with lovestruck expressions. Then the dancing began in earnest, the bridal party coming onto the dance floor and the DJ putting on an upbeat pop song, and Jen retreated. Eight hours since she arrived at the church and she was done. 

 

Of course she forgot about the bake sale.

In her defense, she was editing the Carlisle wedding album and doing an engagement session with another couple and dodging calls from Queta, who wanted to know whether Frances liked her new school and how she was doing in terms of grades. Or so Jen gathered from the voicemails her mother kept leaving, because Queta couldn’t text like a normal person. Jen wasn’t going to call her back — that meant at least an hour of backhanded comments about her life choices and then one or two days lost to lying in bed and wondering whether she should bother ever getting up again. 

It was Eliza who reminded her.

“Bake sale is tomorrow,” she said when Jen came to pick up Frances. “You can drop off your contribution at the table outside — there will be a sign.”

Jen stared at her blankly.

“School bake sale?” Eliza said. “You signed up to bring something.”

Oh, right. Jen fought down a sudden wave of tiredness at the thought of getting up early, driving to the school, seeing the other moms. She wanted to give an excuse —  _ sorry, my second cousin died suddenly we were close I have to be at her funeral tomorrow _ — but Eliza was already looking disappointed, and something in Jen rebelled against that assumption. “Yeah, of course.”

“Did you forget?”

“No,” Jen said forcefully. At Eliza’s dubious look: “I didn’t!”

“Okay.” Eliza held up her hands in a placating gesture. “It starts at ten, so if you drop off your item before then, that’d be great.”

“Great,” Jen echoed. 

Frances bounded to her side, holding a piece of paper sodden with paint and glitter. “Look, Mommy! Miss Eliza told us about famous painters, and I was Van Gogh.”

“Do you still have both your ears?”

Frances didn’t roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. “Miss Eliza doesn’t give us sharp objects.”

“Mm, you’re resourceful.” Jen examined the painting. It was a passable imitation of Van Gogh’s Arles  _ Sunflowers _ , with glitter on the tinted sections. At least, Jen assumed that was what purpose the glitter was serving, because it didn’t exist in the original. “This is good, we should get a frame for it.”

Frances shrugged, suddenly bashful. “Or we could put it on the fridge.”

Privately, Jen thought cheap fridge magnets wouldn’t be able to hold the weight of that much paint. But Eliza nodded. “Someplace everyone can see it.”

Jen bit down a comment:  _ don’t pressure her to show off, we can put it wherever she wants. _ Eliza wasn’t trying to backseat parent — she was making a suggestion, and Jen was projecting her own childhood shit like she always did. She blamed the weeks of avoiding talking to her mother. “Well, we’d better be going. I still have to get some things for dinner.”

Frances gave her a suspicious look, but Eliza waved. “We’ll see you tomorrow!”

Once they got into the car, Frances said, “We always get pizza on Fridays.”

“We will,” Jen assured her. “I just need to swing by the store first and buy some eggs.” And butter and flour and whatever else went into brownies.

She scrolled through recipes on her phone and found one that seemed doable: minimal ingredients, no nuts, and she could mix it all in a single bowl. Frances helped her find the things on her list — they didn’t need a dozen eggs or a pound of flour, but maybe Jen would make pancakes for breakfast this weekend, a reward for them giving up their Saturday morning. On the drive back home, Jen called in their pizza order from the local place that had become their weekly go-to. Half mushrooms and pepperoni, half vegetarian (because her six year old had taste buds Jen couldn’t aspire to). At the apartment, she got Frances settled with a slice of pizza and her spelling homework, so she could focus on the baking.

She read through the recipe once, then a second time. Okay, first she had to melt chocolate and butter. Not too hard — she dug out a saucepan from far back in the cabinets and dumped the ingredients inside, turned on the burner. While that melted she could mix the dry ingredients. Which… where had she put the measuring cups? 

“Mommy, what does  _ pelota _ mean?”

Jen paused her search to scan Frances’s sample sentence and give a suitable definition. She was helping Frances review her sight word flashcards when she caught a whiff of something burning.

“Shit!”

She darted into the kitchen and yanked the saucepan off the stove. Too late: the chocolate had turned grainy and bubbled into a blackened mess. She threw the pan in the trash; there was no saving it, and she didn’t feel like trying to scrape out burnt chocolate anyways. That was all right — she hadn’t gotten far, and now she knew not to leave the chocolate unattended. Learning curve. She let out a slow exhale. 

Take two.

This time she pulled out all the ingredients beforehand, measured them into separate bowls like she’d seen on those cooking shows Queta liked so much. One step at a time so she wouldn’t get distracted. God, she felt like she was back in undergrad, doing a chem assignment. Wasn’t baking supposed to be a kind of chemistry? She’d gotten A’s on her labs, but she couldn’t seem to get all the lumps out of this batter or remember to line the baking pan with parchment paper. She sighed as she scraped the batter back into the mixing bowl, washed the pan and prepped it, and poured in the mixture again. She threw the pan in the oven and leaned against the counter, taking deep breaths.

She was being productive, she was being productive, she was being productive.

Forget making pancakes for breakfast, she and Frances were going to IHOP.

 

The school bake sale turned out to be a bigger event than Jen had expected. When she and Frances arrived to drop off their contribution, there were several parents milling about the tables, chatting and buying huge cookies and slices of pie. Some of them had brought their kids, who were playing on the open playground; Frances looked to her for permission before slipping away to join one of her friends on the swings.

Jen found Eliza at the far end, manning the cashbox. She was wearing a lace-ruffled apron over her sweater and jeans, hair a thick dark braid over her shoulder. 

“Cute,” Jen commented, nodding at the apron.

Eliza laughed. “I don’t wear it while baking. I imagine it’d be a nightmare to clean.”

Of course she baked. She probably had her own food blog. Jen held up her plate of individually-wrapped brownies. “Where should I put these?”

“Oh, I’ll take them.” Eliza started arranging them among a display of lemon bars. Jen glanced around at the tiered cake stands and paper doilies, the various desserts arranged in artsy staggered patterns or concentric circles. 

“Did you do all this yourself?”

“Hmm? Oh. Benny helped.”

Jen snorted. 

“What?”

“I’m sure you guys just happen to have matching cake stands.”

“She helped with set up,” Eliza protested. “And she made the lemon bars.”

“You baked for this, too?”

“Well, the first year we did this, some parents signed up to help but didn’t bring anything. We sold out in an hour and didn’t raise much money. The other teachers and I figured out it’s better to be safe and bake a batch of cupcakes or a few dozen cookies.” She gestured at the school yard, where teachers and parents were clustered in groups, chatting. “It’s kind of become this social thing. Which —” she lowered her voice a notch, keeping the sweet smile “— people seem to be more amenable to hearing about how their kids are doing school-wise when in an informal setting.”

“So is this the part where you tell me Frances needs to be more outgoing or whatever?”

“What? No, Frances is doing fine. She participates in class, she and Amelia hang out at recess.” Eliza shrugged. “Is there anything you think I should be concerned about? Trouble with homework, or an issue with another student?”

Jen shook her head. “She talks about how much she loves class time. I think I have more trouble with her Spanish homework than she does.”

Surprise flashed across Eliza’s face before she masked it with a more neutral expression. Jen grimaced. “My mom never taught me. I took Spanish in high school, but I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume —”

“It’s fine. I picked up some swears from Alex, but that won’t be useful until Frances starts driving.”

Eliza gave her a tight smile, and Jen winced. Was that inappropriate? Or was it the mention of Hamilton? Jen didn’t know whether Alex and Eliza had maintained contact — though she doubted it, Alex tended to forget about people unless they made some effort — or whether Giza had glossed over some crucial details of their not-breakup. Damn, she’d have to text Giza tonight and ask. 

Another mom approached the table, interrupting their awkward silence. “Miss Schuyler! Did you make your apple cupcakes?”

“Of course!” Eliza pointed at the other end of the table, where there were a few cupcakes decorated with tiny marzipan apples. The woman handed her a ten and went to collect two of them. 

“Well, um.” Jen took a couple steps back. “I promised Frances pancakes, so.”

“Okay.” If Jen didn’t know better, she’d almost think Eliza looked disappointed. “I’ll see you Monday.”

 

Halfway through her chocolate-chip pancakes, Jen remembered to text Giza.

JL:  _ do you know if Alex still talks to E. Schuyler? _

Given that Giza was in Senegal working with middle-schoolers, Jen found it a little ridiculous she only took three minutes to respond.

GM:  _ I am not sure, why? _

GM:  _ are YOU talking to ESchuy? _

GM:  _ how did that happen??? _

JL:  _ she’s Frances’s teacher _

JL:  _ we’re not like, TALKING talking _

GM:  _ but you want to _

JL:  _ i didn’t say that, where did i say that?! _

GM:  _ i Know you _

JL:  _ that is super creepy out of context, also there’s an ocean between us _

GM:  _ :((( _

GM:  _ but she is very pretty, yes? _

JL:  _ not interested!!! _

GM:  _ then why did you ask about her and Alex? _

Jen tapped at her phone. Yes, Eliza was attractive, and yes, Jen hadn’t been on an actual date in years. But this wasn’t her looking for a girlfriend, this was her trying to stop being so damn awkward around her daughter’s teacher. And, fine, maybe she would like a friend. At least one in the same country.

She looked up. “Do you want the rest of my hot chocolate?”

Frances rolled her eyes but pulled the cup close, foamed her upper lip with lukewarm milk.

Jen didn’t answer Giza’s text. 


	2. wear black in the present tense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Jen regrets answering the phone; also Eliza POV

The next month passed in a blur. October usually represented the beginning of a lull in the number of weddings she worked, but a wedding planner contacted Jen last minute, told her the bride was willing to pay double for the inconvenience. That turned into two weeks of back-and-forth emails, negotiating deposits, arranging a meeting, and discussing themes for the photo album. That on top of finishing another album from September and updating her portfolio, as well as evenings spent with Frances, doing homework and making dinner together, meant she hardly had time to get a decent night’s sleep, much less think about luxuries like friendship. But it was fine. She was working hard, she was staying on top of the bills, she was spending time with her daughter.

Of course things couldn’t go well for long.

It started with a phone call from Queta. 

Jen, expecting another call from the wedding planner, picked up without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Jenine! You couldn’t answer the phone earlier?”

“It rang once.”

“I mean the dozen other times I called. You can’t tell me you were busy every time.”

“I do work.”

“From home.”

“ _ Mom. _ ” It wasn’t worth rehashing this argument; they’d been having it for years and Jen could feel the pressure building behind her eyes.

“Do you send Martha texts once a month, too? I didn’t stay in contact with my brother when I was your age and I’ve regretted it. Texting isn’t the same as talking.”

“Why’d you call?”

“I want to know how my favorite granddaughter is doing.”

“Well, she’s in school at the moment.”

“So, what, you don’t see her? It’s not a boarding school.”

Jen sighed. She checked the phone screen: 1:22 pm. The planner wasn’t supposed to call until 2:00, and then she needed to be at the school to get Frances at 2:30. If she finished this page and then started getting her things together, she could put the planner on speaker phone while she drove. 

Half an hour. She could talk to her mother for half an hour.

Jen told her how Frances was doing, her grades so far, her favorite subjects. Queta hummed disapprovingly when she mentioned Frances learning Spanish — “this is America, we speak English” — but that comment aside, she let the matter go. She expressed satisfaction that Frances seemed to be making friends — “She should be social, you can’t expect her to just get along with books,” “I  _ know, _ Mom.” Jen went into detail about the bake sale, knowing it would gain her points. “That’s good, you should be involved.” But then Queta wanted to know what else she’d done, and Jen lost ground as Queta chided her for not signing up for more events or joining the PTA. 

“Sorry, client calling, talk to you later,” Jen said in a rush, hitting the ‘end call’ symbol before Queta could get in another word.

She looked at the time. 1:50 pm. Close enough.

The planner called back late, apologetic. She’d neglected to mention the bride would be having a tea ceremony prior to the church wedding; apparently when the bride said ‘private’ she meant for the family, not ‘no photos,’ so would Jen be available for that, as well? Jen, irritable after her conversation with Queta, agreed, just to be done with the call, only afterward realizing she hadn’t been clear there would be an extra fee for the time change, and that she’d have to ask Mrs. Morena if she could watch Frances sooner. 

At the school, she shoved her hair into a messy ponytail. Leggings, hoodie, t-shirt: she usually bothered to put on a nice jacket and some lip gloss, but the portfolio and then Queta had distracted her. She paused to take a deep breath before going inside. She wasn’t going to let her bad day affect Frances.

“So, we had a bit of a situation,” was the first thing Eliza said to her. 

“What,” Jen said, her earlier resolution vaporized like she’d walked into an emotional vacuum. 

Frances came to the door, staring at her shoes. Eliza put a hand on her shoulder. “Frances pushed another student during recess.”

“She what?”

Eliza sighed. “It seems the student said something inappropriate to her. We’ve spoken with the student and their parent, and they won’t be attending class tomorrow, with the absence noted in their record. However, we can’t let physical violence go unaddressed. Frances has received a warning; if she has another incident like this, it will count as an absence.”

“So she’s being punished because some other kid was a dick?”

“No, she’s getting a warning because she pushed another child off a slide,” Eliza said, sharp. “I’m just informing you of the school policy and the consequences should she do this again.”

“Right. God, sorry.” Jen rubbed at her temple. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be one of those moms who never let their kids face consequences, and here she was snapping at her daughter’s teacher for enforcing the rules. “We’ll have a talk when we get home. Is there something I need to do? Fill out a form or something?”

Eliza shook her head. “It was a first time offense, the other child wasn’t seriously hurt.”

“Good. I’m sorry about this.”

By the time they were in the car, her surprise and anger had once more receded, leaving behind exhaustion. “All right, kiddo, what happened?”

Frances squirmed in the rearview mirror. “Ethan made Amelia cry.”

“Miss Eliza said he told you something bad.”

“He said me and Amelia are girlfriends. We told him to stop but he made kissing noises and called us gross.”

Okay, time to unpack this. “You shouldn’t push other kids.”

“He wouldn’t stop! He did it before, too!”

“Then you need to tell Miss Eliza or Miss Benny so they can deal with him.” Jen tried to sound firm. “You know the rules about pushing and hitting. But also… it’s fine if you like girls.”

Frances rolled her eyes. “I  _ know. _ ”

“Hey, don’t sass me, you’re technically in trouble,” Jen said. “But you can like whoever you want. No matter what Ethan says.”

“Amelia’s my best friend, Mom,” Frances said seriously.

Yeah, Jen had used that line before.

 

That night she ordered takeout. That week she answered emails and did little else, too tired to focus on her portfolio. Frances had to wake her up one morning because she’d slept through her alarm; Jen took her to school in sweats and unwashed hair, came home, and dozed until it was time to pick her up. They subsided on leftovers and pizza. Jen pretended she was coming down with something while she mostly felt… down.

It wasn’t until Friday evening that she realized she’d forgotten to call Mrs. Morena.

She dialed and a man’s voice answered her. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi, I’m trying to reach Marci Morena?”

“This is her son, Carlos.”

“Oh! This is Jen Laurens. I’m one of her tenants.”

“Look, this is kind of a bad time, Ma’s about to go into surgery, so if you need a leak fixed —-”

“Wait, surgery?”

“She had a minor fall, broke her ankle.”

“Oh my god.” Jen doubted the landlady would be back home tomorrow, even if Jen were selfish enough to still ask her to babysit. “Well, um, I was just calling to say I know Marci had agreed to watch my daughter tomorrow but turns out I won’t need her to after all.”

“That’s a relief.” There was a crackling sigh on the other line. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Yeah. Hope the surgery goes well.” She hung up.

Well. Shit.

She couldn’t cancel the gig. The bride had already paid her numerous deposits, which she’d applied towards rent; and besides, that sort of last minute flakiness would be a bullet hole in the side of her reputation. She couldn’t bring Frances with her, either. Even though Frances would keep herself quietly entertained, Jen would need to keep her out of the way all day — which would look tacky — and there wouldn’t be any guaranteed seating or food for her. Also Jen wouldn’t be able to really keep an eye on her, and Jen hated the idea of some random stranger trying to talk to her kid, asking prying questions. 

Who did she know?

Giza wasn’t in the country, Hera wasn’t in the same state. Suddenly she wanted one of her sisters here, someone who could be unequivocally on her side.

_ You could call Eliza. _

No. Jen didn’t know what the parent/teacher etiquette was for this situation, but she felt reasonably certain that asking her child’s first grade teacher to babysit all day Saturday crossed a line somewhere. 

Except… did she have another option? It wasn’t like she and Eliza were strangers, either. Sharing the same ex had to count for something.

She hit ‘Call’ before she could think too hard about it.

“Hello, Eliza Schuyler speaking.”

“Hey, it’s Jen. Um, so. My usual babysitter had an emergency and I have an all day wedding gig tomorrow and I need someone to watch Frances. I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t ask unless I were desperate.” Her brain kicked back into gear. “Even if you know a babysitter who wouldn’t mind a last-minute thing? I would be so grateful.”

She paused for breath.

“ — not a problem, I didn’t have any plans.”

“... Wait, what?”

“I said, I don’t mind watching Frances. Would it be easier for me to come to your place, or would you rather drop her off at mine?”

“Oh.” Jen hadn’t expected this response. “Are you sure? I know it’s inconvenient.”

“It’s fine.”

Jen felt like she’d missed something important, a crucial bit of information that could bring this acceptance into context. “All right. Uh, I’d feel more comfortable if you came here. I can text you the address.”

“Sounds good. What time?”

_ How are you such a competent adult? _ Jen wondered, but she said, “Ten o’clock? I’ll be leaving around then but I can show you around. I mean, what there is to show.”

Eliza laughed. “I’ve babysat before. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

 

“I’m sorry the apartment is a mess,” was the first thing out of Jen’s mouth when she opened the door. “I meant to clean it, I swear —”

“It’s fine,” Eliza said, stepping inside and undoing the buttons on her coat. She winced at her first actual look into the apartment: Jen hadn’t been aiming for false modesty. There were shoes and socks scattered everywhere; the couch was an explosion of blankets and discarded clothing. Jen snatched takeout boxes from various surfaces as she darted around the living room.  Eliza followed her into the kitchen, and Jen made a strangled noise at the dishes piled in the sink. 

“All right, you need to calm down.” Eliza put her hands on Jen’s shoulders and steered her back toward the couch. At least she was dressed, more formally than she had been this past week, in charcoal slacks and a fitted button down. And had she put on eyeshadow? The rose and gold shimmer brought out her eyes.

_ Stop staring.  _

God, she was hopeless. What had Angelica told her, after Maria?  _ “You can’t date people in order to fix them.” _ Jen didn’t need someone to come in and reorganize her life; she already had a career and a daughter, and she’d been managing both for longer than Eliza had known her. Besides, how unprofessional was it for her as a teacher to develop a crush on the parent of one of her students? Although — she smiled as she imagined the more high-strung moms finding out their child’s teacher who organized reading groups and made homemade cupcakes with fondant decorations also liked women. 

_ Focus, Eliza. Focus. _

“Do you have everything you need?” she asked Jen. “Where’s Frances?”

“In the bedroom, getting dressed.” Jen gathered her camera bag and tripod. “She’s had breakfast already, and there’s stuff in the fridge for sandwiches or snacks. Um. Takeout menus are on the fridge — I left cash in the drawer. I should be home around eight or nine. Once the dancing really starts I’m usually good to leave.”

“That’s fine.”

Jen stopped her frantic movements. “Thank you for doing this,” she said, staring at her hands. “It’s been the shittiest week and —”

“Is Miss Eliza here?” Frances poked her head out of the bedroom; her face split into a grin when she saw Eliza. She bounced into the living room and perched on an arm of the couch.

“Don’t bully her,” Jen told Frances, mock-stern. She grabbed a jacket from the closet and shrugged it on, slung the bags over her shoulder. “Seriously, though, I have my phone on me and I check it pretty regularly to keep on schedule, so if anything goes wrong, text me.”

“We’ll be fine, promise.”

Jen bent down to give Frances a kiss. “Love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

Then she was gone.

Eliza looked to Frances, who was staring at her wide-eyed, like she couldn’t believe her teacher could occupy the same space as her not-school life. Eliza gave her a tentative smile. “So, what do you and your mom usually do on weekends?”

As it turned out, the answer varied: either Jen worked, and they spent a quiet weekend at home — or she didn’t, and they went camping, visited museums, or played in the park. The last option, at least, could be managed. It was cloudy outside but not terribly cold, and there was a small playground within walking distance. Frances helped Eliza make finger sandwiches and little bags of snacks, and they took the afghan from the couch for a picnic blanket. On the walk over, Frances nattered on about the latest Nancy Drew she’d read and what she’d learned about Titian when she asked Jen what “Titian red hair” meant. 

Once they reached the playground, Eliza spread out the afghan on a patch of grass. Frances watched, hovering near her side.

“There’s other kids here,” Eliza said. “Did you want to go over and play?”

Frances shook her head. 

“Well,  _ I _ am going to check out these swings.” Eliza brushed grass off her jeans and walked over to the swingset. “You’re welcome to join me.”

Quiet — for a moment Eliza thought Frances would stay on the blanket, watching — and then footsteps as Frances hurried to catch up. 

They sat, side-by-side, on the swings. Eliza kept to the edge, pushing with her toes — these seats were made for children, not adult women with hips. Frances kicked her legs to go higher for a few minutes, but slowed to a more sedate pace after a while. Her sneakers kicked and bounced on the gravel as she pulled to a stop. 

“Are you and Mommy friends?”

“Um. Sure.” The whole  _ we dated the same person  _ conversation wasn’t really appropriate for a six year old, though Eliza wondered what Jen might have told Frances. “Why? Is your mom friends with your usual sitter?”

Frances wrinkled her nose. “Mrs. Marci lives downstairs. Mommy says she owns our home.”

The landlady? Some of her confusion must’ve shown on her face, because Frances added, “I like her. She has two cats, Pepper and Orion. She can’t play very much so we read or make cookies. Except she broke her foot so she’s in the hospital.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad.” 

Frances shrugged. “One time I had a sleepover with Hera.”

Eliza remembered Alex talking about a Hera Mulligan, though she’d only met the woman in passing. “That sounds like fun.”

“But then we moved. Mommy says maybe we can visit her for Christmas.”

“You don’t see family?”

“Like Nana?”

“Yeah, like your nana.”

“Nana gave me a doll for Christmas,” Frances said. Her tone made it clear what she thought of that present. 

“I’m sure she thought you would like it,” Eliza said. “Do you visit her? She doesn’t live here, does she?”

“No.” 

Apparently Frances had inherited her mother’s tight-lipped attitude on the subject. Eliza sighed. Most of what she knew about Jen came from Frances making offhand comments, or bits of Alex’s drunk confessions. She really needed to ask Jen out for coffee. Something casual, that didn’t have to be a date if Jen wasn’t interested. But maybe Jen would appreciate an offer of friendship.

How was it that Eliza could organize a class performance for Parents Day and she got jitters thinking about asking someone out?

At least she had a few hours to contemplate. She stopped her swing. “How about we have lunch?”

 

Jen got home after nine. Eliza heard the key turn in the lock and turned off the muted Bob Ross rerun she’d been watching. “Frances is asleep,” she said, voice low. “She told me her bedtime was at eight.”

“Of course she did.” Jen kicked off her shoes, dumped her purse on the side table. “God, I’m starving.”

“There’s food in the fridge; we ordered Chinese.”

“Thank God.” She dug out a carton of char siu pork and crammed an egg roll into her mouth while she hunted through the utensil drawer. “Kitchen gave me a plate but the bride wanted photos all through dinner.” She swallowed, jabbed a fork into the carton. “You would not believe this wedding. Each table had a centerpiece as tall as Frances. The bride had four dress changes. Four!”

Eliza smiled, though it felt strained. Jen paused. “Was everything good?”

“Oh, yeah. We went to the park, played checkers. Girl talk.”

Jen raised her eyebrows. “‘Girl talk’?”

Eliza flushed. “We talked. You know.”

“That’s pretty special,” Jen pointed out. “She likes Mrs. Morena but I’m not sure how much talking actually goes on during their time together.”

“She’s just introverted.”

“Well, she approves of you.” Jen ducked her head, loose wisps from her ponytail hanging in her face. “I haven’t… I’m not a great parent. I don’t know what Alex told you, but — I wasn’t planning on having Frances. She’s not a mistake — I mean, you don’t trip and fall on a dick — but I was stupid. I was young and stupid and scared, and I made a really stupid choice. I wasn’t ready to be a mom, and I’m still learning.” 

Jen took a deep breath. “Sorry, I know I’m messing this up. It’s just, we’ve moved five times since Frances was born. But she likes the school, and she’s making friends. I want this to work.”

Eliza put a hand on Jen’s shoulder. She wanted to say something like,  _ This isn’t easy but you’re doing a great job raising Frances _ or,  _ I’m here to help whenever you need it, please don’t be afraid to ask. _

Instead she said, “Would you maybe want to get coffee sometime?” 


	3. wear black when you come around

“ _ Mo-om _ , we have to go!”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” Jen grimaced at her face in the mirror and made one last-ditch attempt to do something with her hair. No luck: her thick, wiry curls had decided to be uncooperative, and the humidity wasn’t helping. She shoved the mess into a ponytail. At least her makeup looked good — some shimmery highlighter Giza had given her, buried at the bottom of her drawer — and she’d found some clothes that weren’t sweats or work slacks. Although... was this blouse too much? She grabbed her red cardigan and tried it on. Better, except she kind of had the “starving artist” vibe going on. 

God, why was she so nervous? It was just coffee — low pressure. She and Eliza had already had some brief conversations; if things didn’t go farther, they could at least be friends. 

“Mommy!”

“I heard you!” Jen grabbed her phone from the nightstand. “What’s the rush? We aren’t late.”

Frances bounced on her heels, causing her light up shoes to flash rainbows. “It’s show-and-tell and Amelia is bringing her parakeet.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“His name is Cecil.”

“Seriously? Is that a white people thing?” Frances rolled her eyes, and Jen sighed. “Fine, let’s go introduce you to Cecil.”

Even knowing Eliza wouldn’t be there, Jen’s stomach fluttered with nerves when she dropped off Frances at the first grade classroom. Benny stood at the door, and Jen had the ridiculous sense that the other parents knew Jen had something to do with Eliza’s absence. Were they laughing at her? Jen Laurens with her stupid, schoolgirl — not even a crush, because anyone would admit Eliza was kind and organized and had a brilliant smile and hips like  _ whoa _ and — 

Dammit.

Back in her car, Jen cranked the AC to force some air into her lungs.

Eliza was already at the coffee shop when Jen got there: she’d snagged a window table amid the morning crowd and was looking out at the people hurrying past. The light touched her face at an angle that cast her features in sharp relief, like one of those old miniature portraits. Jen’s fingers itched for her camera. 

But then Eliza glanced to the side and caught her staring. Jen gave a little wave to cover, shuffled closer until she could be heard over the coffee grinder. “I’m just gonna order.”

God knew she didn’t need caffeine, the way her heart was pounding, but she paid for a large coffee anyway. She was feeling better since the wedding, but she wanted to ensure she had enough energy to survive another round of edits. She slid into the seat across from Eliza, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve on her to-go cup. “Um. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble, getting the day off.”

“It’s fine. The office has been begging me to use some of my vacation hours. I think they’re worried I’m going to use them all at once for a trip to the Bahamas.”

Jen forced a smile.

They stared at each other.

Jen scrubbed a hand over her face, remembered too late her makeup. Great, she’d probably ruined it. “I’m sorry. It’s been awhile since I went on a date — not that this is, if you didn’t want it to be —”

“No, no, no.” Eliza reached out, grasping Jen’s wrist. “It is. I know I didn’t make that clear, I should have, I was just… It’s been awhile for me, too.”

Her thumb was stroking idly over Jen’s pulse, and she realized it at the same time Jen did, withdrawing with an embarrassed flush. Jen took a gulp of coffee to hide her own burning face, trying not to mourn the loss of contact. How long had it been since someone had touched her, besides polite handshakes or strangers bumping her on the street? Frances gave her hugs, and they shared the queen-sized bed because there wasn’t room for two smaller ones, and sometimes Frances kicked in her sleep. But that was just part of being a mom. Jen hadn’t been more than a mom in years.

“How are we such disasters?”

Eliza laughed. “What are you talking about? All I see is two cute professionals having a coffee date midweek.” 

“The picture of success,” Jen said, because she didn’t trust herself not to blurt out,  _ you think I’m cute? _ like an insecure teenager. Eliza giggled anyway, as though she knew what Jen was thinking, and sipped her drink, leaving a pink lip print on the edge of the cup. 

Somehow that silliness, that bit of imperfection, made it possible for Jen to talk without feeling as though her chest was going to crack open. She and Eliza exchanged casual questions and stories from work, both of them dancing around the things they actually wanted to know.

Eliza got there first. “So, how long is  _ awhile _ …?”

“Since Alex.” 

“That’s —”

“Yeah.”

“In case you thought —” Eliza fiddled with her cup. “Alex never said anything. About what happened. I’m not saying you have to explain, just that —”

“It’s fine,” Jen interrupted. “It’s been six years. And the breakup was my fault.”

She took a deep breath. God, she hadn’t put it into words since she’d explained it to Giza, sobbing and broken over the phone. “I, um. I went home. Over spring break. Senior year. My, my mom, she’d set me up with a friend of the family. Martin Martinez.” Jen gave a bitter laugh. “She’s never believed her oldest daughter could be a lesbian. How would I give her those grandkids she wanted? Anyways, we went out for drinks. One thing led to another and —” she shrugged. “Two months later and I realized my missed period wasn’t a fluke.”

“You got drinks.”

Jen laughed. Giza had asked the same thing, careful and quiet over the sound of Jen hyperventilating.  _ Did he take advantage of you? Did you tell him no? _ “No, I was — I gave consent. I just. Wanted to prove I could. And of course my mom was thrilled when I got pregnant, thought it proved my sexuality was a phase. Then I wasn’t going to make Alex a mom to a kid she didn’t ask for. Which might have been unfair, for me to make that decision. But I’d cheated on her, and — I didn’t want to face the consequences.”

She exhaled, relieved that she’d managed to recount everything without crying. “Please tell me your last date wasn’t as depressing.”

Eliza gave her a weak smile. “Not depressing, but… complicated? She’d just gotten out of a bad marriage. She ended up moving back to Texas with her daughter. It was for the best, though — I think we both needed things from each other we couldn’t give.”

_ And what do you want from me? _ Jen wondered. But it was too soon to ask that: it was their first date, not even dinner, and Jen didn’t know what she was doing. She said, “That’s hard.”

“Yeah.” 

An awkward pause. Then Jen said, “At least we’re getting all the difficult shit out from the start?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re being efficient.” Eliza looked confused, so Jen tried to explain. “I’m not going to spring ‘by the way, I’m a single mom’ on you. You’ve already met Frances, and you guys get along. And we both have exes we probably could’ve handled better.”

“Hm. So there’s going to be a second date?”

“What?”

Eliza leaned forward, chin in her hands. “You said ‘from the start,’ so that means there’s something more. Is this your way of asking me out again?”

Jen sputtered. “You asked me out.”

“Come on, I can’t be expected to do all the work in this relationship.”

“Relationship?”

It was Eliza’s turn to fumble. “Oh. Well. I meant — we’re friends, that’s a sort of — that’s a —”

“There will be a second date,” Jen said, saving her. “Dinner. If you’re interested.”

Eliza’s eyes sparkled. “Very.”

 

So they were dating.

Jen had forgotten the delicate, fluttery feeling of having a new girlfriend: the girls from boarding school were so far past as to be blurred, out of focus, and what she’d had with Alex had been different, an immediate spark fanned into a flame. She and Alex hadn’t gone on dates — they’d made out between classes, had raucous sex in the dorm, attended student protests. At the time it had been exactly what she wanted, zero to sixty at a moment’s notice, no pressure to perform as a Good Girlfriend. In hindsight she wondered whether she’d simply been selfish, taking everything Alex was willing to give her and risking nothing in return. 

This thing with Eliza was different, though. They were going slow — more as a result of them being adults with conflicting schedules and Jen being a single mom than actual restraint — but they managed semi-regular coffee dates during Eliza’s lunch break, and once or twice Jen asked Mrs. Morena to watch Frances while they got dinner. Nothing fancy, nothing more than a couple hours over dim sum or falafel. But Jen got to text her the next morning,  _ i had a great time last night _ , and Eliza would respond  _ me too :) _ , and they’d talk back and forth, trading stories or pictures, and Jen would find herself smiling, a wide, beaming expression that stretched the limits of her face. Jen got to kiss her after a late-night meal and taste garlic and tzatziki on her lips. 

She got to text Giza all about it.

_ JL: [sent a photo] _

_ GM: !!! _

_ JL: we got frozen yogurt! _

_ GM: you hate frozen yogurt _

_ JL: yeah but Eliza wanted dessert _

_ GM: ;) _

_ JL: stop that. we’re taking things slow. _

_ GM: that is not a useful expression _

_ GM: does it mean you haven’t told Frances? _

_ JL: i just don’t want to hurt her _

_ JL: Eliza’s her teacher, you know? i don’t want to make things weird _

_ JL: or get her hopes up in case it doesn’t work out _

_ GM: there’s that youthful optimism  _

_ JL: the stakes are higher, Giza. it’s not just me who’s affected. _

The “typing” bubbles appeared, went on longer than Jen was willing to wait. She got up to put the dishes from dinner into the dishwasher. Frances had finished her homework and was curled up on the sofa with Miss Marple, because Jen drew the line at Poirot for an almost seven-year-old but old ladies solving crime from their armchairs were fine. Jen snuck glances at her while she scrubbed forks and placed them sudsy and dripping into the utensil rack. Frances seemed quieter than usual, but maybe she had back to school blues. She and Jen had done their usual Thanksgiving custom during the break: going camping on the property Giza kept upstate for the day she decided to take a vacation from educating Senegalese girls and spend a week in a cabin. 

(Eliza had spent Thanksgiving with her family. She’d sent pictures of the pie she baked — cherry, with star cutouts in the top crust — and her sisters playing post-dinner Parcheesi, their own family tradition. Jen had wondered what it was like to belong to a family where avoidance and passive-aggression weren’t the main activities.)

Jen’s phone rang. Drying her hands, she checked the caller ID: Queta.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You’re alive.”

_ Kind of wishing I wasn’t, right now _ . “Yes, we survived the woods.”

“You couldn’t spend Thanksgiving with your family?”

“We’ll come down for Christmas,” Jen said. “How are the others?”

“If you’d come, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

“Mom.”

A sigh. “Harry is studying for the LSAT.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Queta said. “If she starts now she won’t have to cram after graduation.”

“Right.”

“Just because you dropped out doesn’t mean you can’t be supportive.”

“I didn’t  _ drop out, _ I was —” Jen, mindful of Frances less than a dozen feet away, shielded her mouth with her hand and hissed, “I was  _ pregnant. _ I got my Bachelor’s.”

“You were supposed to go to law school.”

“I was never going to law school.” Jen dug her fingernails into the countertop. “I didn’t sign up for the LSAT, I didn’t study. I hated those political science courses. It’s all theory. It doesn’t help people.”

“And being a wedding photographer does.”

Jen took a deep breath. The ground felt as though it were sliding away from her at a sharp angle. “I’m going to let you talk to your granddaughter now.”  _ And get some goddamn air. _ “Frances? Your Nana wants to hear from you.” She held the phone out; Frances took it with a wary expression. Queta never asked to speak with her.

Jen went out into the hall, her back against the doorjamb, and buried her head in her knees. 

“Mommy?” Frances’s voice was small. Jen raised her head and blinked; she’d lost track of time. “Nana said she’d talk to you later, but then Miss Eliza called.”

“Oh.” Jen staggered to her feet, rubbing at her eyes. “Where’s my phone?”

Frances handed it over. Jen raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Jen? I’m sorry, I hate to call like this, but Peggy’s gone to a concert.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I, um, fell off a step stool. Landed wrong on my ankle, I think I broke it? I might be wrong, it might be just a sprain, but I can’t drive. And, ah —” she hissed through her teeth “— it seemed so silly to call an ambulance for a sprained ankle.”

“We’re on our way.” Jen grabbed her jacket, unearthed sneakers from the pile of shoes near the door. “Text me your address?”

“Yes, thank you. I wouldn’t do this if —”

“It’s fine,” Jen interrupted. “Anything for my gir — ah. My friend. We’ll be right there.”

Frances was watching her. “What happened to Miss Eliza?”

“Get your shoes on — she fell, hurt her ankle. We’re going to drive her to the doctor.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yeah, she just needs some help getting to the hospital. Oh, bring your book. We’re probably going to have to wait for a while.”

Twenty minutes later, they were climbing the stairs to Eliza’s studio apartment. Eliza was at the door, leaning against the frame in striped pajamas, holding a dripping bag of frozen peas. She looked sheepish. “I thought I’d ice it, bring down the swelling.”

“Good idea.” Jen knelt down to inspect her ankle. Despite the ice, it was swollen and purple — Eliza yelped when she touched it. “All right, I’m going to get your purse. Are there any others things you’ll need? Medications, insurance card?”

“Mm. There’s a Post-It on the inside of the medicine cabinet.”

“Got it.” Jen found the bright green note with a list written in Eliza’s careful hand. It occurred to her that this was the kind of personal information Eliza might not feel comfortable sharing with her girlfriend of weeks, but then she shook her head. This was an emergency, and besides, she wasn’t going to read it. She emerged with the Post-It folded in half and tucked it into Eliza’s wallet. “Okay, we’re good to go. Frances, would you hold Eliza’s purse? Thank you, sweetie.”

Frances clutched Eliza’s bag to her chest, eyes huge. 

“I’m all right,” Eliza assured her. “Or — it hurts a lot, but I’m not in danger or anything.”

“The doctor will make sure she doesn’t get sepsis,” Jen said.

Frances swallowed and nodded. 

Getting Eliza downstairs, into the car, and inside the ER waiting room took over an hour. Then it was another hour to wait for a doctor to see her. Frances finished her book and Jen surrendered her phone so she could play games. It was almost eleven when Eliza finally emerged, limping on a foot brace. A nurse helped guide her to Jen.

“She said you’re taking her home?” the nurse asked.

“Yes.” Jen stood. “I’m her — we’re together.”

“Right. She has a prescription for pain meds: she can take one pill every four hours. Keep her foot elevated — she needs to stay off it as much as possible for the next two weeks. It’s not a major fracture, but if she strains it she’ll have to come in for surgery.” 

“Understood. Anything else?”

“We gave her some painkillers, so she should be good for the next few hours. If it feels sore before her next dose, try icing it for ten minute increments.”

“Frozen peas,” Eliza mumbled. 

Jen put an arm around her waist and flashed a smile at the nurse. “Cool. Thanks, ma’am.”

As they hobbled back to the car, Eliza giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You called her  _ ma’am. _ ”

“Yeah? I grew up in South Carolina, Mom sure as hell didn’t raise me to say ‘señora.’”

Eliza collapsed into the front seat with a wince. “Do you ever miss it?”

“How can I miss a language I never learned?”

“I meant South Carolina.”

“Nah. I’ve got a life here,” Jen said, acutely aware of Frances watching her from the back seat. “Besides, those summers are brutal.”

Eliza drifted for the rest of the car ride. She jerked awake when the car lurched to a stop and frowned. “S’ not my place.”

“Nope, it’s ours. I’m not hauling you up three flights of stairs or leaving you alone when I know you’re gonna try to get up for work. Besides, I have it on good authority our couch is very comfortable.”

Eliza groaned but didn’t otherwise complain, leaning against Jen as they got into the elevator and walked slowly down the hall. Jen helped her get comfortable on the couch while Frances prepared for bed. It was the kind of domestic scene she’d always hated from the outside, but in the moment it felt as natural as though they’d occupied the same space for years. 

“We’re having chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast,” she told Frances.

Frances, with her toothbrush in her mouth, punched a fist in the air. She ran into the bathroom to spit and came back with toothpaste foam making a ring around her mouth. “That means no school,” she explained to Eliza.

“I feel like you shouldn’t be so excited about it in front of a teacher.”

Frances hesitated, then decided Eliza was teasing. She wiped her lips on her pajama sleeve and said, “You could have chocolate chip pancakes, too.”

“She will,” Jen said. To Eliza, “I’m calling the school, telling them you need a couple days.”

“I would have done that,” Eliza protested. 

Jen shrugged. “Now you don’t have to.” She went into the closet, found the thick sarape Alex had given her years ago, and draped its rainbowed length over Eliza. “Is there anything else you might want? More pillows? Netflix password? I’ll get the lights.”

“No, I’m fine.” Eliza caught her wrist, drew her down close to whisper, “I’m sorry about this. I thought our first night together would be more romantic.”

Frances was in the bedroom, probably devouring another book before Jen came and made her go to sleep. Jen brushed a kiss to Eliza’s lips. “I don’t mind.”

In bed, with the darkness close and Frances spooned against her, Jen lay very still, listening for the sound of Eliza’s breathing. 

Frances whispered, “I like having Miss Eliza stay with us.”

“So do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are much appreciated; i'm also @the-everqueen on tumblr


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